Kicking the Habit
by SarahIntheSky
Summary: The evening after John helps Sherlock kick his drug habit. Then, they are called away to solve a crime. Who will resurface in light of the murder? Will Sherlock and John be able to stand it? T for blood/gore/slight language
1. Kicking the Habit

Sherlock stirred feebly in the dim light. As he opened his eyes, he noticed that he was wrapped in blankets, sitting on his couch, of course, with a damp cloth across his forehead. The blinds were drawn, though he could clearly see a few specks of stars in the cracks, and the whole room was cloaked in darkness, save for their antique lamp, which shined on an exhausted-looking John who was sitting in his chair, thumbing through an old book. Sherlock tried to speak, but his mouth was quite dry. Another attempt to move brought on a fierce ache in every muscle, as well as a deep shiver. John, taking notice, stood and spoke quietly:

"Sit tight, I'll go get you some water." He made off for the kitchen.

Sherlock did as he was told, while his groggy mind produced no more than seven possibilities as to what could have happened the night before that would put him in such an awful state. Soon enough, John returned with a glass of water and a few pieces of toast.

"I'd say you brought this upon yourself, but it really is for the best."

Then Sherlock remembered- the terrible night of withdrawls, the crippling fever, and, especially, the heated arguments between him and John over anything and everything.

"You've been awake all night." he noticed.

"More like all day. You've been asleep for 16 hours. How are you holding up?" John was serious now, his medical training taking precedence over the common quips with his odd roomate.

"I'm holding. This isn't my brightest moment, give me a moment to collect myself." He was about to say more, but a sharp ring from his cell phone cut him off. He could see it glowing on the kitchen counter, and was filled with a mixture of excitement and dread at who would be calling at this hour of night.

"It's Lestrade" John announced, retrieving it from the kitchen.

"Ugh-you can ignore it, considering my present condition. Knowing him, he's probably lost his car keys. Good God, what could he possibly want?" he exclaimed as he stared down at the tiny digital screen which his eyes were so familiarized with. There were 9 missed calls, all within the last 24 hours.

"I told him you weren't available the first time, but he didn't seem to take the hint." John added, smirking.

"The police so rarely do. Help me find my jacket, John, we;d better go and see what the fool wants. And John."

The army doctor looked up from the door where he had been waiting for his friend.

"Thank you. For last night."

John Watson merely smiled in return, as was his nature, and waved Sherlock Holmes through the door as they began their next adventure.


	2. Suddenly, Crime

**A/N: Here's a little continuation I wrote after that actually includes-you guessed it-a crime! There's more written, so let me know in the reviews if you want me to post it. As always, thanks for reading! Enjoy!**

"I've never seen so many odd sorts around Baker Street. Seems...irregular." The man John Watson was walking with gave him a wide-eyed look.

"John you have a truly amazing gift." He slipped one of them a fifty-pound note and walked briskly along.

"Sherlock, what on earth are you-" But he was forced to run after the tall man lest the taxi they'd hailed drive off without him.

"What seems to be the trouble this time, then?" he asked when they were seated in the car. "Another mystery shoe?"

Sherlock was staring intently at his phone, flipping through his messages; John's bleak joke went unnoticed. "You alright?"

"Oh, don;t worry yourself, John, this one's going to be a good one." His grey eyes were shining with excitement as the overpaid taxi flew down the busy London street.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was visibly on edge as he stared up at the enormous old house. How was he ever going to keep the press from snapping at his ankles over this? Sgt. Donovan came over to try and lift his spirits.

"At least the freak and his friend are here, that should make you feel a little better." Lestrade groaned loudly. It certainly did not, he thought maliciously.

"Just show 'em in, will you? I need a smoke." He knew that he shouldn't be indulging himself, not with the nicotine patches. But this particular case was getting to him more than usual, and now that he had to deal with _that_ crazy 'detective', he was not having the best of days.

"Ah, Lestrade! How funny it is to see you out here, Detective Inspector, especially since you don't smoke and there seems to be a very pressing crime in your _capable_ hands. Where is the body?"

"Well I-it's more like pieces, mind you. Let's go."

Sherlock flashed John an excited smile as they climbed the steps of the creaking old house. At least, that's what the doctor thought it was, but he had never seen the man show much emotion other than annoyance while on the job. Momentarily lost in thought, John gave Lestrade and Donovan a curt nod before hurrying into a back room after Sherlock.

"My God..." He sucked in a deep breath. The scene before them was just as horrifying as anything he had seen in war.


	3. Horror and Stupidity

**A/N: Okay guys, this one picks up immediately where we last left our boys. It gets pretty messed up in here, but a crime is a crime, right? As always, reviews are like great big hugs to me, and thanks for reading!**

Everything on the floor was perfect: polished hardwood, an oriental area rug, a small antique chair and table, complete with a tea set on top. Anywhere above that, however, was mesmerizing in it's macabre criminality. Body parts were literally hanging from the ceiling on blood-coated strings, yet there was no pooling on the floor. It was as though all of the pieces, ranging from a severed pinkie finger to an entire limbless torso, had been drained of blood before being strung up, even though John could clearly see clean cuts shimmer as though they were still fresh.

Not wanting to dwell on the scene before him for much longer, he turned to Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway, near Lestrade. John could tell from his intense expression that his brilliant mind was racing through all the facts that he could gather in a few glances, which was an undoubtedly substantial amount. Suddenly, his head snapped up.

"I have no idea why you called me here, Lestrade, you know I don't prefer hack-and-slash jobs. Well, let's get started then. Or rather, John and I will get started, we wouldn't be here if you weren't so clueless."

"Piss off..." Lestrade muttered as he glanced out the doorway. He wanted to get out of this room, meet up with his men, and focus on doing some real police work, , not sit here and babysit this walking encyclopedia while he showed the experienced cop and his team of policemen how to do their jobs.

He was still wary of the 'Doctor John Watson' that went everywhere with the _detective _now, but the man seemed incredibly normal compared to who he was currently associating with.

Holmes, however, was acting rather strange. Normally, he'd bend down and spend a few quick moments with the body, ridicule Lestrade's guesses, and flaunt his seemingly perfect account of what happened to everyone near him. But today, he was outwardly enjoying the gruesome display, even keeping up a running commentary to the doctor, who was looking at him just as skeptically as Lestrade was thinking about the crazy bastard.

"John, would you say that a congealing agent has been used here, on the wounds? Why does this chair look like this? Chairs don't have five legs. They don't need five legs. This chair has _five legs_, John, really now."

It did, John noticed as he glanced over at it. He briefly wondered why no one had said anything about it. The fifth leg didn't even match the rest of the pristine wood, and it looked as if someone had haphazardly attached it. He wasn't able to inspect it any further, however, as Sherlock had snapped it off the seat before Lestrade could leap forward and stop him.

"You bloody idiot, you're tampering with crime scene evidence!" Sherlock whipped around to face him.

"You're really the idiot for not noticing, aren't you? Now, were you going to begin your search for the head, or were you just going to sit about twiddling your thumbs all day?" Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks, looking both aghast and mortified. John was speechless.

How could no one have seen that the pieces, still clothed in a simple business suit, were without the one-item-that would make the whole room ten times more awful? He understood why someone like Sgt. Donovan wouldn't want to come near here, but they were the police, for God's sake! This was their job!

"Well, Detective Inspector, since you seem to be incapable of doing anything at present, I'll be taking the chair, with the fifth leg, a sample of the victim's blood, and two pictures. Sherlock Holmes pulled out his camera phone, took a picture of the suspended body parts, and, quick as lightening, turned on his heel and got a shot of Lestrade's dumbstruck face before rushing out the door.

The doctor jogged up behind him, a blood sample in his hand. "Why would you ever do that?"

The world's only consulting detective smiled down at him. "In case he ever decides to insult my intelligence again, I'll use it as proof that he really does need me around. Come on, John, we have work to do!"


	4. Bittersweet Competition

**Long A/N: Sorry for the wait, I've been very, very ill lately, but I won't ever forget about this story, so don't worry. Anywho, I've got a real story goal now, this chapter's just a little bittersweet thing while I get things going again. It does get a bit pre-slashy and odd, I'll blame that on meds I've been forced to take, Either way, I promise this story will start to have more direction! Please review, it makes my life!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or it's characters, just the situation they find themselves i currently.**

"Well Sherlock? Any theories yet?"

"A few, but nothing yet too promisisng. In any case, we should be gathering all the facts first. What do you think?"

John had been preparing for that question. The first 'case' Sherlock ever brought him on, he had been completely caught off guard by it.

Sherlock put down his phone, looking at the man expectantly. John took himself back from their flat and into room with the..._body_.

"Erm...well whoever did this is obviously sick in the head..." He started off rather lamely, unsettled by the memories. "But they probably wanted it to be so noticeable to catch people's attention, like a warning. Or it could be revenge." Though he would never show it, he desperately hoped he was right, so as not to make a fool of himself in front of his genius friend again.

"Well done John, much better than usual. Now all that's left is to connect the rather thinly spread dots and we should be on our way."

"You can't seriously solve this with what I've just guessed at."

"Well no, you've missed most of the important things, but don't worry, I'll make up the difference. I've got a considerable wealth of ideas, and clues from the crime scene. Shouldn't be more than a 1 patch problem."

John whipped around. "Sherlock! I thought you were done with all of that. We agreed-"

"Yes, John, we agreed on that, but nicotine is an entirely different matter. For one thing-"

"Sherlock, as your doctor-"

"It's not going to hurt me, you know-"

"As your friend! You need to trust me that it is not a good idea."

Sherlock stood up and strode over calmly but intimidatingly over to John. They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither quite knowing what the other was doing. Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"Arm wrestle."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Have you gone mad?"

"Not in the slightest. If I win, I get a patch. Frighteningly simple."

John smirked and raised an eyebrow. "You can't be serious. You have to know that I can beat you. Easily."

But Sherlock was already clearing the kitchen table of the forgotten experiments from yesterday. Then he had a thought.

"Mrs. Hudson! We need you!" He slid a glance at John. "In case _you_ cheat."

Now John was laughing, holding his sides. The poor landlady was being called in to judge an arm wrestling match. She came hurrying up the stairs. "What's all this shouting about?"

Sherlock didn't turn his gaze from John. "Make sure this stays fair."

She looked genuinely confused, but decided to humor them for today. "Alright then, dearies."

_Dear God..._ John thought. _What he must have done to get on her good side._

"Wait, wait, I haven't even agreed to this yet!"

Sherlock turned to his flatmate and looked very, very serious. John just laughed, the whole thing was so childish. "Alright then, but don't blame me if you lose." Sherlock stayed silent as the men got into position over the table **(Oh God I can't even...sorry XD)**. Sherlock fidgeted around in anticipation.

"Three, two, one, go!"

John was surprised at how well the lanky man held up. That said, the strain was showing on his face. The back of his hand hit the table in under a minute. Sherlock looked truly livid for a moment, but got himself under control in a flash.

"Very well then, soldier. You've won. Now, would you mind going out to do the shopping? We've run out of tea again." John was visibly surprised that the detective changed the subject so quickly, but he was being amiable today.

"Sure, if you say you're alright. Don;t give me a reason to regret it. I mean it."

_Thankfully. Now for the landlady. Of course, the smell of tomatoes._

"Mrs. Hudson, thank you for that. You'd best be going then, don't want your sauce to boil over." She walked out quick enough, muttering happily about "the little things that man does."

As soon as the doors closed, Sherlock flung himself to the couch, trembling. He murmured to himself, almost incomprehensibly.

"Not in front of him. Not now. Not in front of John."

**Reader poll! Next Chapter: Flashback feat. Mycroft, or continue on with the mystery crime? Answer in the comments please, I really appreciate the feedback!**


	5. Musings of a Brother

**WARNING! Spoilers to TGG!**

**A/N: **Taking a bit of a different direction here,. Let me know if it's too cryptic/confusing and I'l edit/explain. I'm assuming the usual here, as this is post-TGG: John pulled Sherlock into the pool before the blast, Moriarty got away, the leads went dead. Enjoy!

Disclaim that thang: Just toying with someone else's creations here, all in good fun.

Mycroft was seldom pleased with his brother. The choices he made in life were so rarely accommodating to his particular...personality. However, he at last seemed to have gotten something right.

The job with Scotland Yard was perfectly suited to his abilities and intelligence. It would keep him occupied for hours on end, and the fools employing him would serve as fodder for his rather condescending nature. Thank God he has an over-caring brother with enough pull to keep them from getting too riled by his antics. After all, he does more good than harm.

That's what Mycroft told himself. Every day.

Mycroft Holmes knew deep in his secluded heart that he would do anything to keep Sherlock happy and safe.

Anything at all.

_I expect the damage wasn't terribly extensive.-MH_

_It is. Mrs. Hudson wasn't happy at all, spray paint and bullet holes weren't to her liking, surprisingly.-JW_

Mycroft was worried for a day or two.

"Tell me about it, if you would. What did he do?"

"Well, he was very...intense. Pointed the gun straight at the bomb. Didn't think he'd actually pull the trigger though. I guess I must've seen the logic, or we wouldn't be talking now."

"Hm. Good day then, John."

Mycroft did not sleep that week.

There had not been a case worthy of his brother's talent in over 3 weeks, and the doctor-made-soldier was seeing a new girl. Mycroft knew he had to do something.


End file.
